


Baker Street Approves

by LaShaRa



Series: Meeting The Family [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Meet the Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 22:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20089717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: Because this can only be a threat, this man who is standing calmly in the center of the room, who shouldn’t have been able to get past Q’s bloodthirsty systems and Bond’s vicious little surprises, and perhaps more importantly, the cats.





	Baker Street Approves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalescentgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Redamancy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442555) by [opalescentgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold). 

> So I have wanted to write something for both these fandoms for a very long time and this is me finally attempting that. In honour of and inspired by opalescentgold, whose fic Redamancy demonstrated to me that the above could actually be done, as well as nudging me in the direction of Sherlock (the show), which I had been wary of until that point. And now I live there. So. Credit to them, credit to the writers/directors of the shows/movies and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming, obvs. Happy reading, and I hope it does them justice!

There’s a man in the flat and he’s texting. 

Bond freezes on the threshold and Q walks into him. There’s a part of Bond that’s amused at the small indignant huff he makes, but there are at least seven other parts of him that are assessing the threat in front of them, shifting to block Q from view, calculating reaction times and trajectories and the distance to the nearest weapon. Because this can only be a threat, this man who is standing calmly in the center of the room, who shouldn’t have been able to get past Q’s bloodthirsty systems and Bond’s vicious little surprises, and perhaps more importantly, the cats. But Niklaus and Elio are nowhere in sight. Bond may grumble about the hair on his suits and the gaping holes clawed into the back of the sofa and the embarrassment of uttering those ridiculous names in front of twittering Q-branch minions, but if the cats are anything less than completely fine right now, Bond will have two more reasons to break parts of this man’s body in multiple unsavoury ways. 

Then he realizes that Q hasn’t reacted. Bond doesn’t stop reaching for his gun, but he does hitch his shoulders in silent enquiry. And Q -  _ sighs. _ His head drops between Bond’s shoulderblades with a  _ thunk _ . There’s another huff. 

Bond blinks. Then he looks at the man, looks beyond threat and target and the need to protect Q, and certain things become evident. The gangling height, the porcelain skin, the riotous peppery curls, tinged in this case with a little salt. The long-boned, elegant hands that slip the Blackberry out of sight. The cut of this man’s suit is a far cry from the shapeless sweater Q insisted on wearing to lunch, and he is perhaps a little broader in the face and shoulders, but there’s a familiar burning intensity in those pale eyes - which, Bond realizes now, have not left his face since he walked in. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” says Bond. 

The pale eyes blink once, slowly. “James Bond”

“If you’ve quite finished,” Q says loudly, and barges into the flat, resetting the security systems on his phone as he goes. Bond blinks again, but doesn’t move from the doorway. Sherlock Holmes relaxes visibly, lowering himself onto the sofa with an air of smug satisfaction as Q stomps across to the kitchen, the shopping bags swinging from the crook of his arm. “And there’ll be none of that  _ Mister Bond  _ nonsense in this flat, thank you, Sherlock,” he yells as he disappears into the kitchen. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I don’t know, I rather enjoyed being addressed in a civilised fashion for once,” Bond says, finally stepping away from the door. He looks at Holmes. Holmes looks at him. Niklaus materializes at the foot of the sofa. Without breaking eye contact, Holmes leans down and picks him up. Bond waits for the resultant hissing. 

Niklaus... _ purrs. _

“Good Lord,” says Bond.

Holmes lips’ quirk at the corners. On anyone else, it would be a full-blown smirk. Well, then, thinks Bond, settling himself into the armchair opposite. “So it’s genetic after all.”

“What is?”

“The frankly unsettling levels of complicity with felines of all varieties and temperaments.”

“On the contrary, Mycroft can’t abide cats,” counters Holmes. He sniffs disdainfully. “Allergies.”

“Not even his namesake?”

“Oh, bravo, Agent Bond, you did manage to catch the likeness. Delightful. I had of course expected you to be one more blunt instrument in Her Majesty’s arsenal, but it appears there’s hope for you yet. I’ll introduce you to Lestrade. He might benefit from your tutelage.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” commands Q, marching back into the room with a tea tray. “England wouldn’t survive, much less your pet detective inspector. He’s got enough on his plate dealing with you lot.”

“You’re a spoilsport, baby brother mine,” gripes Holmes, but he takes the proffered cup of tea. Bond helps himself to sugar, smothering a grin as Q pulls a hilarious face, flinging himself into the other armchair with his own mug. “And you’re a menace, Sherlock. You were supposed to give me fair warning before you showed up here.”

“What would be the point?” Holmes snorted. “Warnings are for people who aren’t living embodiments of the British Secret Service.” Before Q could speak, he continued. “Besides, I confess I was...rather curious.”

Bond does not react, but Q’s fingers go still around his teacup. Everything Bond knows about the older Holmes brothers - Mycroft, the minor government official, and Sherlock, the world’s only consulting detective - he’s had to find out for himself. He and Q have been together four months and known each other for years and he’s never asked Q about his family. Part of it is the very real threat that a Double-Oh’s interest would pose to the family of MI6’s Quartermaster, on top of all the other threats that each brother attracts all by themselves. Part of it is his certainty that if Q thought it was relevant for him to know, he would have told him. And still another part of it is the irrational, insecure part of himself that is terrified that even after all this time, he’ll make a mistake and Q will leave and he hasn’t wanted to make any mistakes. But he knows a few things about the Holmes brothers. And he knows that from Sherlock Holmes, the man who shoots up the walls and his own arms out of sheer boredom, “rather curious” is tantamount to an expression of undying love. 

Holmes pets the cat, suddenly clumsy. Q fiddles with his teacup and Bond hides a smile. “Well, in that case, I’m astonished you held out this long,” sniffs Q. “I would have thought Mycroft had given you the whole story by now - after an appropriate amount of gloating, of course.”

“John seemed to think that an in-person visit might be more appropriate,” Sherlock mutters. 

“Somehow I can’t quite picture Dr. Watson condoning breaking and entering as an appropriate scenario for meeting the in-laws,” muses Q. And then, before Bond can react to  _ that  _ statement, Q narrows his eyes and asks, “And where exactly  _ is _ Dr. Watson, Sherlock?”

The whir of Q’s early warning system is on cue enough to be utterly ridiculous, thinks Bond. He quirks an eyebrow at Holmes and the bastard actually grins back. Q sighs heavily and begins soothing his systems for the second time in less than an hour. It’s a few seconds before footsteps become audible through the atrociously thin walls of Q’s flat, pounding up from the third floor. Q begins fiddling with the codes for the pressure-triggered grenades like he’s actually considering setting one off. Bond clears his throat and Q scowls, but unlocks the door remotely just as the footsteps hit the landing. 

The front door bursts open and John Watson dashes into the flat, coat hanging open, illegal firearm in plain view. Niklaus yowls in offence and dives off Sherlock’s lap as Watson skids to a halt, panting. He looks from Sherlock, still daintily holding his teacup, to Q, whose head is in his hands, to Bond, who is hanging on to his composure with some difficulty. “Sherlock - what - you texted - an emergency-?”

“Oh, yes! I lied. But now that you’re here, this is my younger brother Victor and his surprisingly adequate partner, James Bond. Excellent timing as always, John.”

To his credit, John Watson assesses the situation with suspicion for a few minutes more, and then he deflates all at once. “Sherlock,” he says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “You twat.” His eyes are sparkling and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and the affection in his voice surprises Bond. It’s not what he would have expected, from this intense, determined ex-soldier, but then Q takes his face out of his hands and looks across the room at Bond and Bond thinks that he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on when it comes to doing what’s expected.

“Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, do make yourself at home,” says Q, getting briskly to his feet. “I’d apologize for my horrible brother, but I suspect you’ve spent the better part of many years doing just that, so I won’t. Tea?”

“I - yes. Yes, tea would be lovely, thanks.” Watson sinks down at the other end of the sofa, still in his coat, still carrying his gun, but the tension is leaking out of him in waves and Bond can certainly relate. Watson looks around the room and meets his eyes. “Well then,” he says. His eyes are amused and there’s more grey than blonde in his hair and Bond feels a sudden, completely irrational sense of kinship with him. “So you’re the other brave soul who decided to take up with a mad genius of a Holmes.” He pauses. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bond looks around the room, at the cabinets and paintings and cushions where he knows computer parts and guns are stuffed out of sight, at the underbelly of cat hair poking out from beneath the rug because that’s what Q considers “cleaning”, at the doorway to the kitchen where the man he loves is making a thundering racket to mask the fact that he’s really very happy that his favourite brother and his boyfriend finally decided to visit, and he feels something happening to his face. He suspects it might be a smile. “Can’t complain, Dr. Watson,” he says, and across the room Sherlock Holmes grins into his teacup. “Can’t complain at all.”


End file.
